


Sleeper

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friendship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1814956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It sounds convincing, but she wants out of there. She sees Castle on his knees, his hands spread wide like he can balance on the air rushing out of him. She sees Sophia. Hears the thud of her body inches from him. Inches, and they left him there." Two-shot episode insert for Linchpin (4 x 16)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Things happen fast for her. Danberg makes a hole and she muscles Corrigan along in front of her. He's stiff and blank faced. Disbelieving, and if the shock ringing through her own bones is any indicator, still a little dazed from their bodies colliding. From the hard, polished floor rushing up to meet them.

They push out into incongruous sunlight. There's a kind of blind corridor between one building and the next. It's covered and deep enough to shield three bodies for now. She stands at the mouth of it, blocking as much of the limited view from the street as she can. She leans against the building and pretends to check her phone.

Further in, Danberg has Corrigan shoved back on to a granite ledge with a gun pressed to his kidney as he hisses questions. Corrigan is stone faced and smirking. Silent, of course, and Beckett catches only snatches of the one-sided conversation.

"Who else?" Danberg's body jerks and Corrigan can't quite suppress a grunt. "Who. Else?"

Her hair stands on end. Her heart beats like a fist against her ribs. Who else?

There could be others. This could all have been for nothing. The building could be crawling with Sophia Turner's people. They could be going for Ganghong and his family right now.

They could have Castle.

"Not enough time," she blurts out. She fumbles the phone to her ear like she's on a call. Like she's annoyed at having to explain things to the person on the other end.

She shifts her body to lean on the opposite wall. No one on the steps up to the conference center turns. There's a steady stream of passersby in suits and uniforms. Their heads swing up and away, fixed on the doors or the people they're walking with. No one's interested in their little threesome. She's covered well enough, but Danberg's face twists anyway when she shoots a glance over her shoulder. She doesn't care.

"We came straight here," she says loudly into the phone, like she needs to hear herself say it. She does. "If they were that interested they could have met up with us. But they split up, so they're on their own."

It sounds convincing. Her breath pounds in her ears, and it takes every ounce of will not to double over against the sick feeling in her stomach, but she believes it. Sophia was cocky. They'd given her every reason to be. She'd given her every reason to be. She'd followed blindly even though she knew something wasn't right. That nothing had been right since the minute her heart stopped when she caught sight of Castle, bagged and cuffed in Tracy McGrath's hallway.

Because you just don't stop. She hears Sophia's voice. Her sneer and the rage flares up in her. Terror and fury.

She'd given the woman every reason to be cocky, but Corrigan had been surprised when the three of them had piled out of the car. Sophia was improvising when she brought them along. Her and Castle. That was about cleaning up the mess. Cocky or not, she'd never have risked being outnumbered if she had more than herself and Corrigan on the ground here.

Danberg nods shortly. He believes it, too, and his hold on Corrigan loosens a fraction.

It sounds convincing, but she wants out of there. She sees Castle on his knees, his hands spread wide like he can balance on the air rushing out of him. She sees Sophia. Hears the thud of her body inches from him. Inches, and they left him there. They didn't even check to see if she was really dead. She left him there. Alone. She wants out.

She gets her wish before too long. Danberg holds his hand out for her phone. She gives it. He taps away and barks out a few things. Random strings of words and numbers that double back on each other. It's unbelievable. Clichéd, over-the-top spy stuff Castle would love, and she wants out of there.

There's another wave of movement. Things happen fast again. A sedan. An SUV and another. Dark suits and mirrored glasses hiding unremarkable faces. It's the phase of the game where drawing attention isn't something they care about, apparently, and she's shuffled off.

Danberg, at least, rests a hand on her shoulder a second. He looks her in the eye and nods a wordless thank you before he murmurs orders to secure her.

She twists once. Rolls her shoulders for all the good it does her and snaps out a few words. "Wait. Where . . ."

But the agent on her left—the chatty one, comparatively—tightens his fingers around her arm and keeps her moving. "This way, Detective Beckett."

It feels like they've been walking forever when they finally turn a corner she recognizes. It's something familiar, even though the memory is a blur of of the black oblong of Danberg's back and the odd slope of the floor as it follows the contours of the parking ramps beyond the wall to her left.

She calms. They're retracing her steps. They're taking her back to him.

They turn and turn again. A door looms on their right, exactly like half a dozen along the way, but she knows it. She sees Corrigan's hand on the push bar and hears Castle's voice. Low, excited, but with a wrinkle in it now. That questioning note that drives her crazy when it's not slotting the last piece in place in her own mind. Where are we going?

The hair pricks up on the back of her neck as she relives the moment. The instant his words landed and she knew—they both knew—something was wrong. She pushes it away. The moment and the wish that she'd done something. There's nothing for it now.

She didn't do anything. She left him alone, but it's this door he's behind, and it's all she can do not to rush ahead. The less chatty agent blocks her path. He shoots a look at his colleague over her head. He gestures for the two of them to hang back and shoulders open the door with one arm crossing his body, going for a shoulder holster.

There's an endless pause before he finally turns back and mutters, "Clear."

She breaks then. She twists free of the hold on her arm and pushes into the bright, cavernous space. It's busy inside. People in black moving from here to there to the sound of footfalls and single words exchanged in passing.

It's the opposite of a crime scene. Entirely alien. There's no tape or evidence flags or conversation. No body and no sign there ever was one.

No Castle.

She swings back around to face Agent Chatty. She's lit up with fury. She chokes on a mouth full of threats. Demands.

"Castle." She can barely get his name past her teeth. "Where . . . "

"Beckett?"

His voice rings out and she turns. Her whole body turns toward a door she didn't notice. It's only open a crack, but he fills it. He's sitting on something a few steps in, but he leans forward to see her. To catch her eye. Wan light falls across his face as he lifts a hand in something he meant to be a wave before he realized it was too much. It falls into his lap and his chin drops to his chest.

She moves for him. Closes the distance from this doorway to that and barely registers Not Chatty calling after her. Chatty grumbling something. Telling him to let it go, maybe. She doesn't care.

"Castle." She catches herself on the door frame, weak with relief and at a loss. At a sudden, complete loss. She says his name again. Pushes an apology into it that she hopes he hears. "Castle."

"You and Danberg?" His voice is clipped. Strained.

"We made it." She nods. "It's ok."

"Ok," he repeats. "Ok." He lifts his face and tries to smile. He almost makes it but not quite. "You've been secured, too?"

He gestures past her. She winces as she turns her head to follow. It's too bright, and the strange, hushed buzz claws at the inside of her head. The last of the adrenaline leaves her in a rush.

"Secured," she says as she slumps against the doorway. "Yeah."

Something in her voice snags his attention. He shakes himself and shoves over on the box or whatever it is he's sitting on. He pulls his sleeve down over his fingers and swipes at it. Dusts it off and gestures to it with an apologetic flourish, like he's just remembered his manners.

She sinks down next to him, silent and heartsore. It's quiet here with just the two of them. Quieter than a small space and cracked open door should be able to make it. She tries to think of something to say.

"So." It's loud. Too loud for here and now and them. Too stupid. She cringes.

But he says it back. He lets her off the hook, as usual.

"So." He bumps her shoulder with his, and there's the shadow of a grin in his sidelong glance. "You wanna make out?"  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It sounds convincing, but she wants out of there. She sees Castle on his knees, his hands spread wide like he can balance on the air rushing out of him. She sees Sophia. Hears the thud of her body inches from him. Inches, and they left him there." Two-shot episode insert for Linchpin (4 x 16)

It takes forever. Whatever the hell it is they're all doing out there. Danberg's people. The bright white space outside the door is silent for long stretches, then abruptly not. Then it's ringing footsteps and hushed words that she can't make out. Activity filters in through the door in short, irregular bursts. Dead air and noise that's startling every time. She's ready to climb the walls.

He isn't. He sits quietly, more or less. Subdued.

It's wrong. Unnerving in its own right.

She talks to fill the silence. She mutters and shifts uncomfortably on the box. She asks questions neither one of them can answer.

He tries, though. He gives her what he can, like always. Distracted monosyllables, mostly. Smart-ass comments every once in a while. But just every once in a while, like he remembers that it's his job. That he's the wacky sidekick, and she's counting on him for that.

It breaks her heart.

She wants to do something. Whatever he needs. She says it to herself. Practices and tries to make the words come. His name and that promise. An offering.

She tries, but the knot of his clasped hands undoes her. The way his head falls forward and he stares down at his own fists. The way he concentrates and makes himself small. Gives her space, even now.

"Castle." His name comes, finally. Fingers brushing his sleeve. It happens without her say so. It happens, even though she doesn't have the least idea what comes next.

He turns his face. Straightens his spine and sets his shoulders and tries to smile at her. For her, like he knows she's counting on him for that, too.

Her fingers close around a fold of fabric. She shakes her head. The merest movement, and he sighs. He lets go. There's relief and gratitude in it. She thinks so, anyway. She thinks he understands that the brush of her palm over the soft pile of his coat sleeve might be all she can give, but he doesn't have to be brave for her.

"Are you . . . ok?"

She's surprised by the question. He is, too. His head swings back toward her, and his face breaks into a tired smile. Real, this time. For her, but not just for her. Not just because he thinks she's counting on him.

"Yeah . . ." He starts to say it and stops. His eyes drop to her fingers on his sleeve and flick back up to hers. He looks nervous. Eager. Daring and unsure at the same time. Lost. Like he doesn't know how to do this. To be the one asking her for something, but he's willing to learn. "I don't know?"

She nods and holds a little tighter to his sleeve. She could learn, too. Now, she thinks. She opens her eyes wide in the dim, cramped space and the thought comes again. Now.

"You don't have to be," she says in a rush.

It's closer to what she wants to say than she ever thought she'd get. It's so much closer to what she should say that she almost laughs out loud. She swallows it, though. That nervous, giddy thing, because he has to know she's serious. He has to know they could learn together.

"I mean . . . I want you to be." She struggles. Sifts through the words piling up in her mouth and tries to let the right ones out. The ones that are about him and now and what he needs. "You will be."

He laughs a little. "Is that an order?"

"Damn right." She laughs a little, too, because it helps. When he does it for her, it helps.

She lets the silence settle between them, though. There's more she wants to say. More that he needs and a little she can give. Now. Not everything, but it doesn't have to be. She's learning already. Here in this cramped, narrow space with him beside her. It doesn't have to be everything. It doesn't need to be nothing.

She watches him. Sidelong, but constant. Patient, though she hardly has to wait any time at all.

He's in the habit of watching her. Navigating the rough landscape of her moods. His own. The complicated terrain between them. He's in the habit, and he turns his gaze on her before too long. Blinks in surprise to find her waiting. Watching like she never does.

"You'll be ok," she says quietly. Seriously. No laughter now. "But you don't have to be ok right now."

His eyes open wide like she's caught him off guard. His breath hitches and his whole body with it. A painful rise and fall and suddenly she sees everything in him. Sorrow. Wounded pride and hurt running deep and dark beneath that. The rawness of a long-ago man she doesn't know yet. Fear, even though it's over. Because the adrenaline rush is long gone and he's adding another brush with death to their tally. Two in as many days. Three, really.

"Is it . . . she . . ." His voice is shaky. Thin and empty. "The body's gone?"

"Gone."

Her hand drops from his arm. The single word is like a knife in her side. In his, but he nods. He looks . . . relieved? Something she can't decipher and she hates this. She hates not knowing him.

He glances at her and he must see it. How lost she is. That she has no idea what to do for him. He gathers himself. He tries to, but something rushes out of him before he really makes it. "What do you think they do with them? They've got . . . what? Four now?"

"Puppet theater?" She keeps her eyes on own lap. Her hands on her thighs. It's terrible. Shocking. An awful thing to say, but It's funny, and she can't stop herself. "Wax museum?"

He laughs. It's loud and deep and harsh. An awkward bark from his belly. From his toes. "That's . . . Beckett, you are . . ."

"Terrible," she finishes, but she's grinning hard at her own hands.

He can't keep it together. The laughter takes him. It keeps coming until he's shaking with it. Until he's doubled over his lap, holding on to his knees.

It's catching. She tries to fight it. To bite back the swell of twisted mirth that's threatening to split her open, but it's catching. She plants her elbows on her thighs and knots her fingers behind her own head. It's this loud, unsteady, ugly thing from both of them. Laughter and tension and grief pouring out of them both. Remorse and reconciliation.

The door swings open all of a sudden. Agent Not-So-Chatty looms, blacking out everything.

She straightens instantly. She feels slightly hysterical tears on her lashes and tucks her fingers under her thighs.

Castle is too far gone to stop. He doesn't even look up.

Not-So-Chatty ignores him entirely "Detective. Everything ok here?"

She clears her throat. She matches his cool glare. "Better if we had any idea when we might be done. We have our own work to do."

"Danberg's call," he says shortly. He pivots away from the door, relenting almost imperceptibly at the last second. "A while yet, though."

She deflates. A while. She wants to be out of here. Back on her own turf. Her eyes shift to Castle. He's still now. It ends as suddenly as it started, and he's entirely still with his head bowed and his hands dangling between his knees.

She wants to get him out of here. Back to the precinct. The Old Haunt. She wants to be shoulder to shoulder knocking back something cheap and plentiful. She wants to put their family back together. She wants to take him home.

She turns to him. Takes in the weary slump of his shoulders and knows it's over. The brief, unexpected respite is over, and the narrow gap from his hip to hers feels like miles.

"I don't understand," he says to the dusty floor. "A little girl. World War. I don't . . ."

He breaks off. The darkness swallows them both. The quiet.

"Eto nikogda ne bylo moyey strane."

It drifts from her mouth, a grim unstoppable echo. She's horrified. She turns to him, an apology lodged tight in her throat, but his voice comes back to her, soft and just as grim.

"This was never my country."

"You . . . ?" She trails off, puzzled. Curious.

He shakes his head. Turns briefly to flash her a flat, bitter smile. "Just a little. Trashy spy novel clichés. That's as far as my Russian goes."

She nods. Feels like an idiot, because he doesn't see it. He's not looking anymore. Of course he's not looking. It leaves her helpless. They deal so much in glances. In gestures. The advance and retreat of his body and hers. A rich vocabulary of not-quite-touching. All her words are wrong and she's helpless with him not looking.

"I'm sorry."

It's a low rumble. Gruff and pained enough that she almost can't make out the words. Strange enough that she's sure she heard wrong, but he lifts his head just barely and turns to her. He looks her in the eye—he makes himself, even though he's ashamed—and says it again.

"I'm sorry, Beckett."

"Castle." It's flat. A hard period at the end. She can't say nothing, but she's shocked. Baffled by it. She can't think—she can't even imagine—why he's apologizing.

"I should've known. I shouldn't have . . ." He spreads his hands. He looks away again and goes silent. His fingers curl like he can't hold on to all of it. Grief and anger. Hurt. Sorrow. So much of the burden that isn't his alone, but he shoulders it anyway.

"Castle, you couldn't . . . her own people didn't know."

"You did. You knew." There's an edge to the words. Anger that catches her off guard.

"I didn't," she says immediately. It's the truth, and she doesn't understand this. "Castle, I had . . ."

"Don't . . . " He jerks a hand up. Waves her off. "Don't humor me, Beckett. You didn't trust her for a second."

"I didn't want to trust her," she snaps.

She understands all of a sudden. He thinks it's pity. He thinks she feels sorry for him and she's giving him an out. That she's ceding the right to say I told you so.

He's an idiot. So is she, and she's tired of it. She's tired of how stupid they are with each other like this is the way it has to be. All or nothing. She's tired of it.

"I didn't want you to trust her." It's out of her mouth. An admission. Blatant for them. For her. It feels right. Something more she can do. Something she can give him. Now. "Castle, I hated . . . I hated the way you trusted her."

He twists toward her. His hands fall to his sides. His body uncoils in surprise. He looks down, and she realizes she's clutching his hand. Her knuckles are white and her nails are digging into his palm and she has no idea when that happened.

Their eyes travel upward and lock. Perfectly in sync again after all these days. All this useless, lonely back and forth.

"Yeah?" There's a catch in his breath that makes her heart pound. The slightest curve to one corner of his mouth. A glimpse of satisfaction that sets her buzzing.

"Yeah," she says, and it means a thousand things.

She loosens her hold on his hand. He thinks she's pulling away. That this moment ends the way moments always do with them.

He draws back with a guilty start. A gesture of apology half made already, and she's heartsick and frustrated with them both. She leans in. She plants her palms on his chest and hooks her fingers around his lapels. She tugs herself toward him, and the dark narrow space is infinite around them now.

"Yeah, Castle," she whispers. "Yes."

"Yes?" He watches her. Drifts toward her, but the word is faint and fascinated and more than a little terrified.

A laugh bubbles up in her and she leans closer still. It feels right. That tentative, thrilled swirl of breath just before she kisses him. Before she catches the surprised, wanting sound that rises up out of him and parts his lips.

"Yeah." She kisses him again. Again and again. "I wanna make out."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up posting a one-shot sequel to this called "Wake." It's posted as a separate story.


End file.
